


Penciled Instruments.

by winterflowered



Series: Chords Of Sugar. [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxious Steve Rogers, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky Plays The Trumpet, Cap Quartet - Freeform, Fluff, Gen, Inspired by Twitter, Jazz - Freeform, Jazz Club Owner Natasha Romanov, Mentions of Anxiety, Modern Bucky Barnes, Modern Steve Rogers, Pianist Sam Wilson, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, lit rally it's all fluff, shorter than it was meant to be, sorry about that, stevebucky is only implied
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 09:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterflowered/pseuds/winterflowered
Summary: “I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve maimed someone,” Steve shrugs. “God knows how many times you interrupt me to tell me how you could kill someone with my pencil.”“It’s a gift,” and no one wants to argue with that. No one wants to argue with Natasha.“So, Stevie,” Bucky begins with his newly found nickname. “What did you think of our music?”“I’ve never been that big of a fan of jazz, but I think I’ve just found something new to listen to while painting.”Sam’s smirking. “I’m amazing, you’re welcome.”





	Penciled Instruments.

Steve Rogers stood before the doors to the Black Widow, sketchbook under one arm and a packet of pencils under the other. Between lithe fingers is his phone and how he is managing to balance it all while checking the address on his phone he might never know. Steve has known the jazz club’s owner, Natasha Romanoff, since senior year of high school. She had been a Russian transfer student who knew a surprising amount of English and how to calm one down from a homophobe—induced panic attack and they have been friends ever since.

He’s stone—livered but small; a package of bumps and bruises stained upon rough sand skin and jutting joints. Even in the cusp of autumn, freckles cling to his crooked nose. He looks like he could be blown over by the smallest of breezes, partnered with artic puppy eyes, but has the battle scars to prove otherwise —— frail but not fragile, he clumsily deposits his phone into his pocket and pushes the door with his acute elbow.

Steve has never visited the Black Widow before, as he’s never had an interest in jazz, but he’s trying to expand upon the music range he listens to, and he’s doing a series of pencil sketches on the modern jazz scene in New York. So, he’s decided, what’s a better time to visit.

Shifting the pencils to his hand with the sketchbook, his grasp tightens on instinct as a wave of senses washes over him; the tinny tunes of a trumpet, the smooth tones of a piano, the smell of alcohol and the slurred murmurs of the club’s patrons. It is both too much and not enough, and he already felt addicted to the smell of sweat and the jovial laughter.

He sat down in a ruby couch lining the wall, away from the bar but near the exit, and let himself sink into the scratch of granite against textured paper. What he hadn’t meant to do is spend twenty minutes drawing silver fingers upon a trumpet’s valves and rich brown phalanges upon a piano’s keys, disproportionate or not. What he also hadn’t meant to do is allow himself to zone out enough for Natasha to sneak behind him.

“Hey, Rogers,” knocked him out of his stupor and in his moment of shock his hand fell, a line being drawn through his sketch.

He hisses a series of swear words, and sighs. “Hey, Nat. This place is amazing.”

He doesn’t need to look to know that she’s smirking. “Told you you’d like it. James and Samuel, too, apparently.”

The flush blossoming upon his cheeks is ignored. “I just appreciate well—built fingers.”

“Sure you do. So, you like it?”

“Yeah. The lighting is nice for my eyes.”

“Unintentional, but I’m glad,” slipping into the seat beside him, a kiss is smacked on his cheek, leaving a scarlet print in its wake. His nose wrinkled in feigned disgust and she chuckles, licking her finger and rubbing at it all mother—like. It reminds him too much of his mother and he has to quickly banish those thoughts before they take over the rest of his evening. Only then did it occur to him that the musicians, James, as Nat calls him, and the pianist, had been replaced and are _ holy shit _ on their way over.

Samuel is beautiful to look at as he approaches confidently, rich brown skin and a strong stature. It almost looks as if he had just run a marathon, the russet tinge to his complexion glowing bronze in the mellow light and the slowly fading beads of sweat glittering. James’ tawny pink features are hardened in a scowl, probably something to do with the cackle coming from Samuel. Grey—blue eyes, however, dance with mirth as bitten margins pull outwards in a pout. Steve’s gaze is one of an artist, analytical, but he can’t help but blush.

As if noticing Steve’s widened eyes rather than the approaching males, Natasha’s lips curl into another smirk. Emeralds flicker to Steve before settling on the others, gesturing to the free spaces on the seat, to which they both settle comfortably into.

“Steve, this is Samuel and James.”

“For fuck's sake—”

“_ Natalia _. Ignore her. I’m Bucky and that’s Sam,” to which Steve replies to with smiles, which might have been handshakes if it isn’t for the pencil still between fingers. He expresses that thought and Natasha waves him off, silencing his unspoken concerns, clearly having noticed his poorly hidden trembling hands.

If Bucky and Sam saw, they were polite enough not to comment. Steve is more thankful than he cares to admit.

“Steve,” he says anyway, despite Natasha’s introduction.

Sam’s dark brown eyes look like pools of honey in the low light as they flicker toward Steve’s sketchbook and back to him. “You’re an artist.” 

“I am,” he nods, ocean eyes ready to ice over defensively. His grip on his pencil instinctively tightens.

“That’s cool,” to which Bucky nods along to and Steve finally lets himself relax back into the couch. Piercing shoulders slump, glacial irises melting and he drops the pencil onto his sketchbook. His hand, tremours slowing, runs through his locks and his smile is finally genuine.

“Thanks. I’m doing a series on the modern jazz scene in New York as an example for when next term starts. I’m majoring in art history in NYU and teach a weekly class at a hospice.”

“Really?” asked Bucky almost in awe. Steve felt himself blush, all too aware of Natasha’s never—fading smirk. “That’s cool. Sam and I work here for Nat full time, we’ve known her for years.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

“Guess she should’ve introduced us sooner,” Sam quips, sending a feigned glare in the redhead’s direction. She returned it with almost a scary ferocity, staring him dead in the eyes as she takes a sip of her red wine. It’s a beautiful but ridiculous sight and Steve makes sure to memorise the way Bucky’s stormy eyes crinkle at the corner and the way Sam gapes and the way Natasha’s lipstick clings to the glass.

The chuckles and conversations are easy to get lost in, getting lost in the golden lighting of the Black Widow and the new band playing. Nonsense and banter, just background talk to get to know one another. Steve has never felt so connected to two people so quickly, and soon their numbers are in his phone and their laughing over Bucky’s home and lockscreen —— a picture of him and his cat, Alpine as he’s called the white ball of fluff, and a mirror selfie of him shirtless respectively. Steve thinks the blush dusting his cheekbones is pretty, so simply _ pretty _, and it’s hard to look away for a minute. 

“Jesus Christ, Natalia,” Bucky is chuckling into his cup of water. It’s a sound Steve thinks he could fall in love with. “I can’t tell if you’re being serious or not.” To which she offers no reply, just wiggles her claret brows and raises her lips to her glass overdramatically.

“Somehow,” says Sam, “the lack of an answer makes it even worse.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve maimed someone,” Steve shrugs. “God knows how many times you interrupt me to tell me how you could kill someone with my pencil.” 

“It’s a gift,” and no one wants to argue with that. No one wants to argue with Natasha. 

“So, Stevie,” Bucky begins with his newly found nickname. “What did you think of our music?”

“I’ve never been that big of a fan of jazz, but I think I’ve just found something new to listen to while painting.”

Sam’s smirking. “I’m amazing, you’re welcome.”

Buckys splutters incoherently and Natasha cackles. “What the _ fuck. I’m _ amazing, too! You try playing the trumpet with a metal hand!”

Steve makes sure to commit the moment to memory. The way Bucky’s prosthetic glints in the lights; the way Natasha’s eyes sparkle with unshed glee; the way Sam’s smile seems to brighten them all up; the way his own shoulders are slumped and relaxed. He thinks he could get used to this, to two new additions to his small circle of friends, and if there’s anything he’s learnt as an artist it’s that the gleam in each of their eyes says that they’re thinking the same thing.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed! this was inspired by a post i saw on twitter by classicbucky ("pianist sam and trumpet player bucky and jazz club owner nat and steve who's an artist doing a series abt the modern jazz scene in new york") and will, eventually, become apart of a longer series. when i get off my ass and start writing seriously again, that is jshsjsk
> 
> i've never been to a jazz club, let alone one in new york. nor am i an art student. so forgive me for any inaccuracies (clown emojis).
> 
> comments fuel my motivation! leave some if you can!! 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed reading!


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